


Ryan Haywood’s Truth

by TheDangerAddict



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Grand Theft Auto Setting, Angst, Blood and Violence, F/M, Female Jack Pattillo, GTA AU, Gun Violence, Heavy Angst, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Psychological Trauma, Ryan gets tortured, Torture, Violence, immortal au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-03
Updated: 2019-11-04
Packaged: 2021-01-21 14:02:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21300635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDangerAddict/pseuds/TheDangerAddict
Summary: James Ryan Haywood is immortal. James Ryan Haywood is the Vagabond. The Vagabond never goes out without a bang. The LSPD is made aware of all of the above. Chaos, death, and torture ensues.
Relationships: Gavin Free/Michael Jones, Jack Pattillo/Geoff Ramsey, Jeremy Dooley/Ryan Haywood, Other Relationship Tags to Be Added
Comments: 12
Kudos: 35





	1. Fourteen

**Author's Note:**

> So— this is a clusterfuck. I hope you guys enjoy it. Just a warning. This isn’t edited and I don’t know at what points I’ll update. TW: Violence, Gun Violence, Psychological Trauma, Major Violence, Major Character Death, Language. Let me know if you’d like to see more or if you have any advice/spot any typos and/or mistakes! I’m sorry it’s so short, hoping to improve on my chapter lengths as I go.

The Vagabond was an immortal. The word was out. The Vagabond literally unable to die. It had been in the news for a good three days. News articles speculating about his affiliations circulated. Were the rest of the Fakes immortal too? What was the Vagabond? Some kind of failed government experiment?

Ryan had been in police custody for a week. He’d awoken in a great deal of pain, last memory that of a gun to his head and a bright explosion of pain then darkness. Since he’d begun his stay at the police station, he’d been killed a good thirteen times. He wasn’t going to lie, it was getting very old very fast.

They kept him alone in a solitary cell. He could only assume they were keeping him here until whatever government department was in charge of shady scientific findings arrived and that was why he hadn’t been shipped off to some high off black list prison. Ryan would never admit it, but dread was beginning to pool in his gut, restlessness only adding to it. The cell wasn’t big, twelve steps long and ten steps wide. He’d counted during one of his brief moments of free time. They tended to come in to kill him at least twice a day. Thirteen deaths and they hadn’t killed him the day before or the current day. It invoked a bad feeling.

His identity was out there now. James Haywood, The Vagabond, Georgia grown high school drop out. It was cold without his jacket, his second skin. The holding cell room had it’s own thermostat and Ryan suspected they’d set it low specifically to make him uncomfortable. They’d made him watch them burn his jacket and impale his skull mask on one of his own knives. He suspected they’d divided his knives among themselves as some sort of trophy. The thought of anyone else touching his knives made his breathing quicken and not in a good way. It made his blood boil.

Ryan’s blue eyes were trained on the Los Santos police employee that stood in front of his cell. Recognition clicked in his brain as the man sneered at him. This was the guy who’d shoved a knife through Ryan’s eye. An involuntary shudder ran through the blonde, his brain recalling the feeling of a knife being slowly pushed into his eye. If only the B team could see him now, oh, they’d have a fit. The Vagabond scared. Fucking pathetic. Ryan curled his fingers, hands stiff with the cold. 

“You come here often?”, Ryan used his Vagabond growl to intimidate.

He plastered a smirk on his face and stood from his spot on the bench in the cell. The cop stepped back, uncrossing his arms. That sneer was still on his face. Ryan sauntered slowly over to the bars. The cop still have no answer. It was only him and Ryan, who dwarfed him by a good five of inches at least. The blonde suspected they were taking criminals to other precincts on orders that came from higher places than the FBI.

“What’s a matter? Vagabond got your tongue?”, His smirk morphed into that sharp Vagabond grin he used on those who saw his face.

The cop’s expression was filled with copious amounts of disdain as he spat at Ryan, seeming to snap out of his daze, “You wanna talk shit, Haywood? I thought we already covered why you don’t get to do that, freak. Are you that fucked up? Do we really need to have another lesson?”

Ryan fought the nauseating sensation that came with the word lesson. He growled, not paying attention to the spit that landed just short of his boots, and his arm shot through the bars, grabbing hold of the cop by his shirt. Fear rose in Ryan’s throat, making it a bit hard to breathe, but Ryan had a reputation to live up to. He wasn’t going to roll over to the fucking pigs just because they killed him a few times. He wouldn’t. He was the Vagabond and the Vagabond didn’t take shit from anyone. The Vagabond went out with a bang, every single time. Ryan was a prideful man and this pig needed to be put in his place, because he’d caused the Vagabond pain. The Vagabond didn’t take kindly to people who caused him pain.

He pulled the man towards him by his shirt and grabbed his hair once he was close enough, slamming the guy’s head into the bars of the cell so hard the bars reverberated with the shock of the collision. There was a satisfying crunch and blood spurted from the cop’s nose. The cop fumbled for his gun and Ryan did nothing about it, laughing. He stuck his other hand through the bars and forced the guy to look into his eyes, hands fisted on both sides of the man’s head. The other man’s pupils were struggling to dilate, but he still held that sneer on his face. Ryan laughed, a crazed laugh that drew the attention of the people at the front desks, and he slammed the man’s head into the bars once again.

Someone opened the door and stepped through the doorway that separated the area open to the public and the holding cells. Ryan made eye contact with the wide eyes of that cop for just a moment, taking his attention away from the cop in Ryan’s hold. He gave him a wink and turned back to the cop in his hold.

A gun went off and pain exploded through Ryan’s chest. He stumbled back, still laughing. His laughing was cut off abruptly as his chest heaved with effort, attempting to bring in air. He couldn’t breathe. Fuck. He couldn’t fucking breathe.

Ryan knew he was dying, knew his lungs were collapsing, but his body was in overdrive trying to stop him from dying. He cursed the blood that ran through his veins, that made him so human and so not. The pain was phenomenal, made worse by the way his chest heaved erratically, trying to get air into something that had no room for air anymore. He convulsed, unable to cough as blood bubbled up his throat, and fell to the ground. The stone floor was cold.

Ryan couldn’t tell what was going on around him. His body was trying to fix itself. He wanted to scream at himself, tell his body to give up already. He hated dying slowly when he knew he would be back soon after. It didn’t feel worth it if he knew it was a very real possibility he would go through the same death again. 

The keys jingled as someone unlocked the door to his cell. Ryan’s eyes were wide and wild with pain as they started to the source of the noise. He tried to speak as multiple cops, he couldn’t count, poured through the door. It came out in a painful gurgle and a spurt of blood shot from Ryan’s mouth. His surroundings felt fuzzy and agonizing. It hurt so fucking badly. Someone stepped on his chest, using that foot to hold most of their weight. 

A watery-sounding, bloody scream filled the air as a couple of things snapped in Ryan’s chest. Everything went black and numb. Nothingness greeted him. Ryan died for the fourteenth time in his stay at the Los Santos Police Station.


	2. Dog Training

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Psychological Trauma, Knife Violence, Torture, Blood, Major Violence, Burning, Language, Manipulation, Blunt Force Trauma, Degrading.
> 
> Guys! Second chapter!! This one is worse than the last in terms of violence, but it’s at least double the size of the last. Again— please, feel free to point out any and all mistake you spot!! Advice is welcome!! Also— I’m sorry for another chapter of pure pain. The plot actually begins in the next one.

Ryan’s bare chest ached with the bite of the cold floor in whatever dark hell he’d opened his eyes to. The remains of his shirt were gone, presumably no longer a functioning shirt. It left Ryan exposed in ways that he didn’t care to be. He couldn't see anything, vision reduced to nothing in the absolute darkness of the room. There wasn’t even some kind of window to let in the bits of light that came with city living. It sawed at Ryan’s nerves. He’d never enjoyed being left out of the loop and the discomfort of not being able to get a clear idea of his surroundings was only added to by the aroma of blood and bleach. It made every breath of Ryan’s an unpleasant sensation, reminding him of the crew’s med bay and his first time there.

It’d taken a long while for Ryan to trust The Fakes, so getting him into the med bay had been a battle for his first year of working under Geoff. The first time Ryan had been wounded majorly on a job with The Fakes, he’d avoided letting them know about the injury and gotten to his shitty apartment in record time. He’d died, but he hadn’t had to deal with unfamiliar hands poking and prodding at him like he was some freak show. Geoff still didn’t know about that. Unfortunately, Ray had an amazing eye when it came to all things, being their sniper, and he’d spotted Ryan’s gunshot wound seconds after it happened on the twelfth job with The Fakes. It took one member of their med crew getting an arm dislocated for them to leave Ryan be. 

Ryan's heart beat quickened as his memory of death and why exactly he'd been 'unconscious' returned to the front of his mind. He pulled at the solid metal cuffs binding his hands, testing their durability. They got tighter around his wrists and Ryan stopped. It sent a wave of dread through him, knowing that he wasn't in that holding cell. That meant something worse than boredom awaited him, that pain and another death awaited him. Rolling himself over, he sat up, eyes struggling to make out anything but the blanket of black that enveloped the room.

He was lucky enough that his jeans, the ones Gavin liked to poke at for their lack of style, were still very much intact. Gavin's usual beloved skinny jeans would've boasted quite a few tears by then if he'd been placed into the cell and gone through what Ryan had. A grimace graced Ryan's features at the thought of Gavin or any of the crew at the hands of the sadistic fucks that ran amok under the guise of the law. Ryan wasn't any less mentally fucked than any of them, but at least he didn't lie about it. Those fucks claimed to follow and enforce the law. Ryan would put money on the supposed 'good guys' being the ones to break the law the most often. 

A door to the right of Ryan swung open, slamming against the wall and effectively startling Ryan. Light burst into the room from the door way, making Ryan’s eyes water. His eyes yelled for reprieve, but every instinct inside of him screamed not to lose track of what he could see. Vaguely human figures moved through the door way, shielding Ryan’s eyes just a little from the light. The blonde scrambled to his feet, blinking despite his instincts. His eyes adjusted after a few blinks, revealing that there were a total of seven different cops and they were all standing in a basement of some sort.

"Some people are picking you up tomorrow, Jamesy." The man in the middle of the group spoke.

Ryan knew all of them by face, but not name. Each had killed him at least once, some more than once. The pig who’d just spoke had killed him the first time, the fifth time, and the twelfth time. Ryan was keeping track. He was going to get the fuck out of the shithole and he was going to rain hell upon the LSPD, starting with the ones who’d done the least and building up to the ones who’d done the absolute most until he got to that fucker. The middle man was the most intentional, the most creative with his kills. Ryan fucking hated him.

"Which means tonight we have fun, boys." He wore a grin that spoke of the kind of piece of shit he was.

The group of cops held various things, a couple even sporting some of Ryan's own knives, but none of them had a single pair of cuff keys on them. It struck Ryan that they might’ve been far more organized than they let on. They all begun their approach, moving in an organized clutter of bodies and weapons. The man who’d killed Ryan the most stayed by the door, forcing Ryan to take his focus away from the group if he wanted to keep eyes on everyone. Some asshole made a grab for Ryan’s head at the same time that a bat came whistling at Ryan’s side. Ryan jumped out of the way, setting himself off balance, but quickly recovering. He was outnumbered six to one and that was without the motherfucker standing at the door.

Someone strode towards Ryan from behind, making Ryan twist his neck to get a good look at the man. He held a police baton. Ryan briefly wondered where the fuck he'd gotten that, ducking as the man swung it for his chest. It skimmed his hair and Ryan threw his shoulder into the man's groin before popping back up. The man fell back into another cop and Ryan turned to spit into the face of a different approaching cop.

The room was very suddenly filled with light and Ryan wasn’t able to keep his eyes open at all. He tried to force them open, but they instinctively shut, struggling to adjust to the new light in the room. A bat collided with his side and Ryan stumbled, still blinded by the light. He winced, pain blossoming through his stomach. Someone grabbed his arm. Ryan jammed his knee into the back of the person's knee, movement as fluid as possible with handcuffs on and limited range of motion. The man fell, hand still tight on Ryan’s bicep. It pulled Ryan off balance enough for a pair of brass knuckles to come careening into his face. His brow split, blood spilling down his face and into his left eye. Ryan shut his eyes, blinking against his spinning world. He caught a glimpse of the fucker who'd killed him three times and he lost him just as quick. His heart was pounding. He bit at a hand that grabbed for him. The taste of blood was a familiar tang on his tongue. Someone kneed him in the face, knocking him onto his back. Ryan rolled out of the way and some sort of blunt object met the ground where he'd been seconds earlier. The world was still spinning, off kilter and fuzzy. His eyes struggled to focus as he worked his way onto his knees then onto his feet.

A fist flew by his face. Ryan grinned, despite the way his eyes— his eye didn’t want to focus correctly, blood staining his white grin an unsettling red-orange. He let out a defiant laugh, harsh and mocking and sinister, meant to cause the cops to back off for just a moment. It worked.

"Why the fuck are you laughing, Jamesy?" He saw the face before he felt the electric shock that caused his body to seize.

Adrenaline coursed through Ryan’s veins, leaving him still able to move and he lunged for the man, throwing his shoulder into the smug grin. The man fell back, Ryan planting his feet firmly far enough back to not be kicked. He teetered for a moment, but he pulled off the balancing act well.

Another pair of barbs found his bare shoulders and shock rolled through his body, bringing Ryan to his knees. His muscles tensed, spasming with the current of electricity. More barbs entered his back and Ryan could feel the cold floor nipping at his stomach. His adrenaline wasn’t enough to power through the force of three tasers. He shuddered, unable to grab a breath. Someone kicked him in the side. A gun went off. His ears rung. Nausea pushed his lunch out of his stomach and onto the cold stone floor.

An excited cheer washed through the crowd of cops. Someone's knee dug into the small of Ryan's back, knocking the air out of him once again. He arched his back in discomfort, as the cords attached to the barbs went taught, pulling at his pale skin. The person on top of him, Ryan couldn’t tell who when everything sounded like he was underwater and his eye that wasn’t swelling shut wouldn’t focus. The smell of vomit reached his nose and he heaved again as the person above him yanked the barbs from his back. Ryan stiffened for a moment. The person above him wasn’t done, grabbing Ryan by his head and saying something that didn’t reach Ryan’s ears. Ryan focused on trying to breathe without throwing up. The man repeated it louder, but it still came out garbled, sounding like the parents on a Charlie Brown special. When Ryan didn’t answer he shoved the blonde’s face into the former contents of his stomach. People were laughing, mocking Ryan, but Ryan’s head was spinning, eye refusing to focus, stomach churning. He couldn’t breathe, hindered by the fact that his facd was buried in an inch of his own puke, and his body jerked, breathing in some of the blood infused vomit. He sputtered and his body forced anything else in his stomach out.

“Come on, Jamesy! Where’s all that cocky pretty boy act now?!” The man above him, triple kill, yelled into Ryan’s ear.

The blue eyed man cringed away from the noise into his own bodily fluids. There were so many people laughing, taunting. Someone in the crowd shouted, “Haywood looks real pretty when he isn’t talking! Maybe we should cut out his tongue!”

Someone else responded, “No! He doesn’t deserve to be that pretty or smug! You saw what he did to Ben yesterday! We should fuck up his face!”

Triple kill laughed above Ryan. “What do you say, Jamesy? Do we fuck up your face or take out your tongue, pretty boy?”

Ryan couldn't see what was going on behind him, squirming, but unable to get anywhere with the movement due to the knee pressing down on his spine. A knife passed from hand to hand until it found the hand of triple kill, whose other hand was still fisted in Ryan’s hair. Triple kill tugged Ryan’s head back without remorse, holding his hair in a painfully tight grip. Ryan’s vision was still swimming as a warm knife was pressed lightly against his jugular.

“Don’t fucking ignore me, bitch.” Triple kill put more of his weight into his knee, effectively pushing the air out of Ryan’s lungs.

Ryan coughed, each cough a more painful endeavor than the last, sputtering out, “Cut out my tongue.”

Ryan knew how these things worked. They always did the opposite of what you asked them to if you hesitated. Cutting things off was tricky in immortality. Sometimes it stuck and others it was back the moment you were. So Ryan answered with the opposite of what he preferred. His face was already fucked up, as it was, so he wasn’t losing anything.

“Fucking up your face it is!” Triple kill barked out cheerfully.

Ryan’s head pounded ferociously, a constant pulse of pain in time with every other hurt that marred his body. His head had stopped spinning for the most part, but his stomach still felt like it might implode and he still couldn’t focus correctly. 

The knife moved from his jugular to the center of his forehead where triple kill applied more pressure than he had previously, “So what should we carve, boys?!”

Ryan wasn’t religious, but the six cops watching looked like hungry demons in his unfocused peripherals, figures swathed in black holding all kinds of things meant to inflict pain. It took Ryan’s concussed brain a moment to correctly process them as what they were, crooked human cops. He felt sick to his stomach. There was nothing there for him to throw up anymore.

“A fucking dog!” Someone yelled.

“No! A skull!”

“LSPD— Property of LSPD!”

“Freak!”

“Dog!”

“Bitch!”

“LSPD’s Bitch!”

“Just fuck up his face already!”

Pain seared through Ryan's forehead as the knife begun to work it’s way through skin and muscle. Triple kill sawed through nerves till he saw fit. Ryan locked his jaw to keep from making any pained noises. His eyes watered, blood dripping down his face. By the time Ryan felt his body trying to pull him into the lull of shock, triple kill had finished cutting the words ‘LSPD’s Bitch’ into his forehead and cut the initials ‘AMS’ into the side of his face. Triple kill wiped the bloody knife in Ryan’s hair, using the dirty blonde strands to clean off the blood until he could see his reflection in it. 

He brought it down to show Ryan his handiwork, but the blonde’s eyes were rolling back into his head, “Boys! Who wants to have a go at him?!”

The room went surprisingly quiet. They looked between each other, no one quite ready to stomach hurting the Vagabond without killing him. They’d all killed him before, but that was when the Vagabond was cuffed in place, unable to lash out with his arms or hands and stuck.

Someone stepped forward. Ryan was on the edge, his surroundings fading in and out of reality. The cop smirked knowingly at triple kill and held up a lighter. It wasn’t the kind you carried around in your pocket. It was the kind of lighter you took with you on a long hunting trip when you wouldn’t be in contact with anyone. He flicked something on the handle and a flame flickered to life.

“Roll him over.” The approaching cop stepped closer to Ryan introducing the flame into Ryan’s peripherals.

The blonde was barely aware of someone moving him, too far gone to fight back as he was moved onto his back. The handcuffs bit into the small of his back and he arched his back instinctively away from the uncomfortable pressure. 

“Someone give me a bat.” Triple kill held a commanding presence and tone when he spoke and postured.

Someone gave him a bat.

Ryan’s eyes started to close.

Triple kill swung it so hard the air sung it’s way around the bat. It met it’s mark and Ryan was forced from the early stages of shock. Pain jolted through Ryan’s leg, spreading from his knee cap and a low choked sound slipped from Ryan’s mouth. 

“Wakey wakey, Jamesy!” He grinned down at Ryan, foot on Ryan’s sternum.

Ryan’s wild eyes darted to the lighter and he kicked out with his good leg, thrashing. Triple kill put more of his weight into the foot that held Ryan captive. The effect was immediate. Ryan’s struggle became more vehement and violent. He couldn’t stop how his chest heaved at the phantom pain of someone pressing their boot so hard into his chest it just completely gave out. 

The lighter was held just above Ryan’s face, no one daring to near his flailing leg. His face felt on fire in contrast to everything else. The pigs were laughing. Ryan wanted to tell them that it wasn’t funny, that funny would be doing everything they did onto him and more to their loved ones and them.

Fear stirred, cold and foreign, in Ryan’s chest. He felt like a kitten at the mercy of a bunch of experimenting middle school boys, a cornered animal. The man with the lighter, placed a hand on the side of his face, beginning to pry open his mouth. Ryan bit him. The man let out a startled yell, trying to pull his hand back. Ryan held on, his jaw aching with the complacency. The lighter clattered to the ground, off, and the man pulled at his arm with the help of his other hand.

“You fucking piece of shit, little bitch, fucking cunt, cock sucker, goddamned freak.” The man threw out obscenities at Ryan, spittle flying from his lips.

Triple kill stepped off of Ryan only to kick him in his side where the bat had struck home minutes prior. Pain slammed through Ryan and he bit in harder, the man in question letting out a cry before backhanding Ryan and yanking his hand free. The world spun for Ryan. He couldn’t focus on anything. His right eye was completely swollen shut. Vomit mingled with strands of his hair. Triple kill’s knee was on his chest.

A searing pain met his bare abdomen and Ryan, caught off guard, took a sharp breath, biting his tongue to keep from screaming. A single tear leaked from his half-functioning eye. He tried to get away from the sensation, but the more he struggled the more breathless he felt.

“I feel like we’ve had this lesson one too many times, Jamesy. You act like a dog. We treat you like a dog. Beg. Beg or we hunt and kill The Fakes. We slaughter every single member from Kingpin to Jeremy Dooley” Triple kill whispered in his ear.

Not Jeremy. They wouldn’t lay a hand on Jeremy. Ryan would tear apart the worlds of anyone who harmed a hair on Jeremy’s head. Something broke in Ryan and he let out a feral growl, snapping at triple kill.

He leaned back as Ryan tried to bite him, mocking, “Hey! Bad dog!” A hard punch to Ryan’s solar plexus landed. You’re our bitch now, remember.”

Ryan convulsed, tremors going through his body as it fought on all fronts to keep him alive. The coughs that fell from Ryan’s mouth were rough and filled with red tinted spit. His body shuddered, gasping for air. Ryan let out a frustrated yell, trying to get out from under the man that held him. His chest ached. His head felt like static. His breathing was erratic and quick, matching his heart. His knee had been obliterated. He missed Jeremy. They were laughing, all of them were laughing at him. Triple kill pressed a gun under Ryan’s chin, the barrel was cold against the exposed, burning skin. It sent a shiver through Ryan's fried nerves. 

"Fucker needs to be taught a lesson on who's in charge!”

“That’s right— beg, pretty boy!”

Ryan didn’t beg, a hard look in his open eye, unfocused upon triple kill. The gun was removed and a knife tip was pressed at the bottom of Ryan’s abdomen, drawing blood. Triple kill applied a little pressure and slid it from bottom to top. It felt like a scratch in comparison to everything else. “Feel like begging yet?” The action was repeated when Ryan kept the look in his eye. Ryan’s body tensed, spasming with alarm. Again. It started to sting. Again and again and again. Blood was unable to soothe the burning from the wound. Triple kill pulled out a latex glove from his back pocket, slipping it on, and begun to pry the wound wider, digging through muscle and nerve.

“Beg, bitch.”

Ryan did react, a wordless scream, but he didn’t beg. Pain knocked the air from his lungs. His stomach felt wrong. A kid, he was a kid again, helpless and alone. Ryan brought his knee up and knocked triple kill away. The knife clattered to the ground. Ryan didn’t move, just breathed. A boot clad foot nudged at him.

“Did we break him?” A pig in the gathered group asked.

“He’s not moving.” Another agreed.

One shook his head, “He looks like he’s still breathing.”

Triple kill picked himself up from where he sat next to Ryan, “Anyone have a flashlight?”

Handing it over, someone mumbled, “I do.” 

Triple kill put his hand close to Ryan’s eye, the swollen one, testing for a reaction, “You broken, Jamesy? Tired?”

Ryan, barely there at all, pushed his might into moving his head away from the hand, but that took too much energy. The flashlight was lifted and his eye was held open, bright light pouring into said eye. Ryan’s pupils were blown full, the whites of his eyes blood shot. Triple kill chuckled. Humiliation lay heavy on Ryan’s chest.

“Looks like he took one too many hits to the head. It’s not fun, is it?” He sneered.

The man that would no doubt mar Ryan’s nightmares for months to come, smacked Ryan, trying to get a response from the unresponsive man. Ryan felt trapped in his own body, unable to move or speak, battered and exhausted. Triple kill grabbed the knife from it’s place on the ground..

“Speak now or forever hold your peace.” He joked, holding the knife out for anyone who might want to do the honors.

No one moved.

A grin spread across his face from ear to ear, as he ruthlessly shoved the knife through Ryan’s throat. A gurgle slipped from somewhere in the vicinity of Ryan’s throat and mouth. 

Ryan died again.


End file.
